


Shadows and Death

by abovethesmokestacks



Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Bucky Barnes is straight up not having a good time, Gen, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Inspired By, Non-Graphic Violence, Red Room, Tili Tili Bom, because that lullaby will fuck me up until the day I die, winter soldier!bucky barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-24 00:26:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30063843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abovethesmokestacks/pseuds/abovethesmokestacks
Summary: Sometimes, he thinks he must be a ghost. The Asset walks the hallways, a familiar route, never specified, but somehow always repeated. He comes and goes, retreating into the unknown, dying over and over again and brought back over and over again. To the little ones he is more effective as a ghost, as a shadow passing their door at night, as menacing footsteps and a quiet moment outside the door that sends a flurry of heartbeats racing. The mere allusion to his existence is enough, they fall in line, they sleep like one. Except tonight.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	Shadows and Death

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Shadows and Reflections](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8806717) by [abovethesmokestacks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/abovethesmokestacks/pseuds/abovethesmokestacks). 



> Once again, Tili Tili Bom comes back to whack me over the head. I swear to god, that song will haunt me for as long as I live. This piece is ostensibly a companion piece to Shadows and Reflections, but can be read as a stand alone, dealing with Bucky's POV of the events of that fic. It deals with him in Winter Soldier mode and as such, is not a particularly happy story, so please care for yourself and heed the warnings given in the tags.

Sometimes, he thinks he must be a ghost. The Asset walks the hallways, a familiar route, never specified, but somehow always repeated. He comes and goes, retreating into the unknown, dying over and over again and brought back over and over again. There is a big, gaping nothingness inside of him that he thinks must have been where his soul once was, now void and unreachable, separated from him in this limbo that he haunts.

They are times when he has to remind himself of his existence, the undeniable evidence of it. The weight of his feet against concrete floors, the width and height and breadth of him, taking up space. Hands that grip and squeeze and kill, one with more brutal efficiency than the other. Voices calling him, giving him a place, a purpose. Order in the chaos he emerges into.

But even with his form, even with every straw he grasps at to confirm his existence-

_He is a ghost._

_Not a trace, Soldat._

_Disappear._

_Take them. Take them out._

_Vanish._

He is a ghost, solitary and lost, brought back in turmoil, nameless and chaotic and tamed into obedience with incantations that cut like knives into his mind, making him forget about- _forget-_ making him focused. Making him compliant. He remembers- he remembers- He retains little, but he thinks time must still be moving forward in the slice of existence that is not his. Faces change. The words are the same, but they come from different mouths. He is tethered not to a place or an object, but dragged to wherever those words are spoken, set loose in the wake of them and the whispered orders that follow, welcomed back whether stained with blood or wrapped in shadows. Permission to speak – _mission report, Soldat_ – and banished back to nothingness until they need him again.

He walks the hallways, an endless labyrinth that he somehow knows the layout of, but never seeks to escape. He walks past rooms where sometimes he’s allowed to participate in training. They are so young, and he only throws his punches a little, telegraphs his blows by seconds. Anything else would warrant a torture he would rather avoid, both for him and for the unlucky girl who got caught by extension. The little ones are… they have not been introduced. Not yet. He is more effective as a ghost to them, as a shadow passing their door at night, as menacing footsteps and a quiet moment outside the door that sends a flurry of heartbeats racing. The mere allusion to his existence is enough, they fall in line, they sleep like one.

Sometimes he hears the song from afar, not quite echoing down the halls, but carrying along the hallways, a melodious whisper that etches itself into his head, repeating, distorting, lingering even as he slowly freezes.

“Soldat.”

Orders are given, target is specified. He hesitates. That’s not right. They’re- That’s- _She is nine years old._ The click of a gun, staring down the barrel into an abyss that feels more like relief than anything else. There is only an illusion of choice. Killing him would be too kind, too quick, too easy. They won’t let him go. He is bound to them.

Mission parameters. No name. Just the number of the room, fifth row, third bed. Extract, divert, dispose. Resists training. A liability. A mistake to be rectified.

_But she is just a girl._

He drags his feet, feels every pound of the body he inhabits, hears the shifting of the plates in his left arm like a nervous tic, wonders why his line of sight is blurring, why it shrinks and undulates.

_She is just a child._

The songs finds him in all of it, a lone voice defiant in the silence taunting as it declares:

_Он уже близко…_

Their breaths are mechanical, like little dolls as they lie in bed, row upon row. They don’t fool him, he knows they’re awake, some unable to keep from trembling. He is a ghost, their ghost, their own _babai_ slithering from under their beds, from their nightmares to claim them.

_Fifth row, third bed._

Her eyes are wide and brimming when he snaps the chain of her hand cuff and she puts up only a token resistance when he pulls her out of bed, mouth set behind his muzzle. His teeth grind together because she is a child she is a child and she squeezes his hand and _stop stop stop Becca you are being silly don't hold my-_

A heartbeat rises above the others, slow and steady over the lightning quick murmurs. It pulls him out, the voices pushed back and he sees her. Red hair, inquisitive eyes holding his. He tilts his head, that look- it carries a defiance, a kind of foolhardy courage that makes him want to… sigh? Rub his forehead? The Asset, he is the Asset, he does not- He wonders what to do. He doesn't want her to get in trouble, he doesn't want to get in trouble. His value is as a ghost. Fear and death are the only things he can offer. Pulling the unfortunate girl closer, he raises his left arm to put his index finger over where his voice is locked away. _Quiet. Stay down. Stay still, or I will have to come for you, too._

"Пожалуйста, господин." _Please, sir._ "Please, I'll be good, just take me back, I'll go to sleep, I'll be good."

He wants to let go of her hand, something ancient in him feeling almost embarrassed to be holding her, heat rising in his cheeks that he is thankful cannot be seen. It is- it is the little hand and the little voice and he can't- it hurts- 

She cries and sings the song, and it cuts him like knives. She cries and he says nothing, anguishing in the rapid breaths, the nails against unyielding fabric. Later when her voice has been silenced and he haunts the nearby cemetery he can still hear it. The song follows him, makes him stop to look around, listen for a heartbeat that never rises. He finds a grave with a nice name on it, digs and digs and lays her to rest. The name is not hers, he thinks, but it sounds nice. Like a mother's, an aunt's, a grandmother's. Someone to share death with. Little graces he'll never know.

The Asset reports back. His voice wavers. Their faces are grim.

"Вернуть его." _Put him back._

It's futile to resist. He's led past the room where he fetched her, the room with the fearless redheaded girl. He hopes she is all right, that she was not discovered. He hopes she'll live, that she'll not break under the Red Room. The chair makes his stomach turn. He can still feel the small hand in his, the inexplicable irritation- _Please, don't let go, ma said- Buc-_

His mind is blank, sparking along the edges. The world is hazy, he is being put away, but- There is a song, ominous, distant, teasing at connections he can't make, it unsettles him. He mouths the words as his veins burn, hears the melody as his mind is suspended.


End file.
